[He thanks her even though he'd fought her on it, and it makes her lips twitch as she suppresses the smile she wants to give on reflex. To more effectively put a stop to that, she bites her lip again and looks to the window again. His question prompts her to move her gaze down.
...Most of the time questions like that made her defensive on reflex, her hostility being a good wall between her feelings and the judgment of others. Teo might...still think it's stupid, but she thinks she can trust it's asked out of genuine curiosity more than anything. Now that she wants to give someone an answer, what was she supposed to say?]
"Every moment has infinite potential. Every new moment contains for you possibilities that you can't possibly imagine. Every day is a blank page that you could fill with the most beautiful drawings." John C. Parkin.
"White. A blank page or canvas. So many possibilities." Stephen Sondheim.
"The blank page gives us the right to dream." Gaston Bachelard.
[Ryder exhales, resting her hand on the page with the reverence of it being something displaying all these thoughts for her, rather than showing nothing at all. Her cheeks haven't gotten the memo. They're going pink.]
"The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible." Vladimir Nabokov.
no subject
...Most of the time questions like that made her defensive on reflex, her hostility being a good wall between her feelings and the judgment of others. Teo might...still think it's stupid, but she thinks she can trust it's asked out of genuine curiosity more than anything. Now that she wants to give someone an answer, what was she supposed to say?]
"Every moment has infinite potential. Every new moment contains for you possibilities that you can't possibly imagine. Every day is a blank page that you could fill with the most beautiful drawings." John C. Parkin.
"White. A blank page or canvas. So many possibilities." Stephen Sondheim.
"The blank page gives us the right to dream." Gaston Bachelard.
[Ryder exhales, resting her hand on the page with the reverence of it being something displaying all these thoughts for her, rather than showing nothing at all. Her cheeks haven't gotten the memo. They're going pink.]
"The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible." Vladimir Nabokov.